pieces of cracked perfection
by Anrheithwyr
Summary: Isn't it crazy how growing older isn't the same as growing up? Tomorrow, I will turn seventeen years old, yet I don't feel very prepared for this event that my mother absolutely swears is very important and most likely will change my life ter all, I turned sixteen last year and I was still just a tall, gangly girl with messy hair and bruised knuckles.


Isn't it crazy how growing older isn't the same as growing up?

Tomorrow, I will turn seventeen years old, yet I don't feel very _prepared _for this event that my mother absolutely _swears _is very important and most likely will change my life forever.

After all, I turned sixteen last year and I was still just a tall, gangly girl with messy hair and bruised knuckles from getting into fights all the time.

I'm not sure how just one day-birthday or not-is meant to transform me into the _beautiful swan _that my mother seems to think that I am, or will one day be.

Mostly, I think Mum is disappointed that she didn't have _two _perfect daughters; after all, Victoire is the golden child and I only snagged the remaining pieces of cracked perfection that my older sister left behind.

I am still sixteen and I am still lost and confused and wondering if one day-birthday or not-is really enough to make me the daughter that my mother wants me to be.

Because all I have are pieces of cracked perfection and that is just not enough to fix all the problems that bubble inside of me, and turning seventeen isn't enough to save what remains of my torn up soul, what little there is left to be futilely saved.

And I'm growing older-I'm turning seventeen, which is a scary thing to do when you don't even know what you're doing-but I'm not growing up.

Growing up is supposed to be about realising that, _yes_, the world is a rather shitty place, but at least you can _do _something about it.

Growing up is falling in love or finding your place in the world or discovering yourself, and I have done none of these things.

I have spent almost seventeen years listening to faery-tales told to me by my mother-the dreamer, the hoper, the wisher of wells-and I know that mine is the faery-tale with no happy ending.

After all, I never quite managed to reach the heights that my sister-damn her to hell, but is she ever fantastic at being better than me in every single way-left for me to grasp at.

How are you supposed to be the best, anyway, when someone else has already _done _the best before you ever could and did best better than you could ever even _hope _to do?

Because my mother keeps on telling me that when I turn seventeen tomorrow, my life will be so incredibly different, but if that's true, then why haven't I already begun to feel that way?

Dad says that Mum is just full of fancies and dreams, and that I should listen to everything she says as a childish backdrop to reality.

Except that he always says it with a laugh, and I know he isn't grumpy with Mum, so I am always confused, because Dad is usually only serious when is he is grumpy.

Does that mean that Mum being full of fancies isn't true? Mum doesn't seem the sort to be stuck on childish ideas, except for love stories, which she seems to think are real.

I asked my cousin Molly about it, once, but she just said that Mum is trying to remain in the past, back before she was an adult. Back when everything was perfect and I hadn't been born yet.

So, am I really meant to assume that Mum is trying to relive her own teenage memories through my sister and I, or does she truly expect that I am going to wake up tomorrow as a prettier, smarter, and better daughter than ever before?

Victoire has already achieved that idea, if the perfect daughter is what Mum is striving for. Victoire was _born _perfect, and I am merely an extra burden.

An after effect.

I…sometimes, the hardest thing in the world is looking at my older sister and knowing that the universe is a cruel, heartless place that shows no concern at all to younger sisters who only just want to be as good as their older sisters, instead of always feeling useless and that they, as younger sisters, have no apparent place in this world.

And I know that everyone is telling me that I am beautiful and intelligent, and that I am no less perfect than Victoire, but it certainly doesn't _feel _that way to me.

It's hard to believe the compliments when so much evidence tells me that the _compliments _are lies, fed to me by people who only mean well.

My mirror tells me the truth every day, show me how fat and ugly I truly am, revealing the way my outfits make me look so dull.

My grades at Hogwarts tell me the truth, with _almosts _and _not quite perfects _written atop every paper, mocking me with the painful sense of _never good enough_.

I _know _that I'm not good enough, that I'll _never _be good enough and, regardless of how many times people tell me otherwise, I _know _that I am never and _will _never be good enough.

Please, compliment me all you want, but it won't make a difference, not when the truth is so clear to anyone who truly looks at me.

After a while, one gets used to it, though; the truth never stops hurting, but admitting my worthlessness of second place is better than keeping up pretty lies meant to make myself feel better.

I have been told that, for an almost seventeen year old, I am much too morbidly serious and that no one ever likes a serious girl.

I have been told that being so dour on myself will make no friends, and that pushing myself too hard is ridiculous, because I'm not even seventeen yet, so why am I stressing out so much?

The problem is that, no one who says that to me has Victoire Weasley for an older sister. None of them know what it is like to constantly live your life _knowing _what perfection in human form is, but never quite being able to achieve it.

And I know that I sound like I'm being whiny and acting like the world is against me, but trust me, I'm _trying _to move on.

I'm _trying _to live in a world where the others are right and I don't _have _to be _less than perfect_.

But it just isn't happening; I'm _trying _and I'm _trying_-fuck the world, I am _trying_. And it just isn't happening.

It isn't happening…I am drowning under my own sea of imperfection and…isn't it crazy how growing older isn't the same as growing up?

Because I'm turning seventeen tomorrow and I'm no more prepared for it than I was yesterday or the day before.

And I'm growing older, but I'm not growing _up_-I'm too afraid, too scared, too convinced that the entire world is about to crumble around me while I can only stand still and watch it happen.

I don't blame anyone except myself-I don't blame you, Victoire.

There _is_ no one else to blame except the girl who looks back at me in the mirror, that stupid, ugly girl who doesn't know a thing about how terrible the world is, and how much it hurts, because life sucks and the world sucks and everything sucks. There is no one else…

_Dominique_

…

You hold me up to such high standards, little sister.

You put me on a shelf and look up to me, little sister.

You measure your every move against what I have done and what I will never do, little sister.

You tear yourself apart based on how you see me, little sister.

You convince yourself that you are useless and that no one could ever want you, little sister.

You seem to think that everything I do is perfect, little sister.

You think that I am the better sister, the prettier sister, and oh my poor little sister,

You think your own self-worth is based on how the world sees me, little sister.

The problem is that you aren't me, little sister.

You've never been me, little sister.

And to beat yourself up for not being me, little sister?

That just breaks my heart, my poor little sister.

I've tried telling you to just be yourself, little sister.

I've tried making you see your own self-worth, little sister.

But you stand in front of the mirror with tears in your eyes, little sister.

And all I can do is cry for you, my foolish little sister.

_Victoire_


End file.
